Tideline (18 page)

‘It’s always worse when it’s a youngster the river takes. You can’t help thinking of the parents. Whatever the papers say, it’ll be a suicide. It’s that skunk
does it. I’ve seen more than one kid come to grief on the back of it and it’s all over the shop now, they sell it outside the primary schools these days. It gives ’em the blues,
big black depressions they can’t climb out of. He’ll have done ’imself in, that’s what I think.’ She shakes her head and asks how I am.

‘I’m very well, thank you, Sheila. Never been better,’ I tell her, hugging to myself the knowledge that Jez is neither drowned nor suffering from skunk-induced depression but
is alive and well and living with me. That though temporarily he’s gagged in the garage, the second my husband and daughter leave tomorrow, I can reinstate him in his beautiful music
room.

Sheila and I exchange a few more pleasantries before I join the others in the waiting room. The boat approaches, sending more waves butting against the side of the pier.

The Clipper rolls about on the water this morning. It’s a rough day, too cold to go out on deck, my preferred place. As we set off in a great arc out into the middle of the river, the
buildings on Canary Wharf seem to undulate, their windows reflecting the leaden sky.

Though the river is more familiar to me than my own skin, it can frighten me. Today is one of those days. The grey swell is hostile, it lifts and drops the boat alarmingly. I can’t relax.
I don’t want to look into the depths as the Clipper builds up speed and we start to bump over the waves.

We leave Greenwich on one side, the tall buildings on the other, and move upriver towards Masthouse Terrace Pier, and then Greenhouse. After twenty minutes we dock at Canary Wharf. It never
fails to surprise me that it takes this long on the river to reach, when it appears to be right opposite us at the River House. Yet that the Queen’s House, which seems right up there on the
other side of Greenwich, can be reached on foot in five minutes.

Greg chats to Harry as we set off again. He’s bought him a beer from the bar and they are being all man to man. Kit is texting someone, her head bowed over her mobile in concentration.
I’d like to sit next to her, talk about small things, the things I imagine other mothers and daughters pass the time with. But I can’t think of a way in. I can hear Greg’s voice,
droning on. How the river was once busier than the streets, crowded with masts, jammed so boats could barely pass one another. How the tobacco warehouse at Wapping was once the biggest public
building in the world. ‘Designed, would you believe it, by the same guy who built the prisons of Dartmoor and Maidstone.’

Harry nods thoughtfully, though I wonder how interested he really is in Greg’s lecturing.

‘See over there. That’s where they executed people for crimes upon the “high seas”. They used to keep “the saddest book in the world” in the police station. A
record of suicides both attempted and successful. Not very cheerful, but the Thames has always had its dark side.’ Greg takes another sip of beer.

I huddle into myself. I always feel uneasy passing the recklessly constructed 1980s apartments on the other side, when the river, it seems to me, has no time for such frippery. The warehouses
that Greg speaks of, and the wharves as they were when I was a child, West India Dock at the Isle of Dogs, had a working relationship with the Thames, receiving the goods brought in on the barges.
There was a kind of mutual respect between the buildings and the river that fed them. But these apartments and developments are arrogant of what goes on below them. There’s a disjunction
between them and what the river demands. Harry clearly feels no link with the Thames, either, and Greg’s is tenuous, cerebral rather than instinctive. It isn’t in his blood as it is in
mine. He’ll never fully understand why I cannot live away from it.

I clutch the sides of my seat and think of the mysteries the river keeps hidden in its depths, the treasures it churns out at low tide.
Tamasa
. ‘Dark river.’ Today the Thames
seems darker than ever.

We arrive at the Pool, the stretch of water between the Tower and London Bridge and sweep into Bankside Pier, the boat braking violently. The waves churn angrily, tossing the boat about as great
ropes are thrown out again.

As we pass under Blackfriars, Greg tells the long-suffering Harry that the bridge is named after an order of monks who used to live here. Then we glide past the South Bank where little blue
lights are strung out along the trees. Kit drags Harry by the hand away from Greg and they lean on the windows and exclaim at how pretty it looks. At last we arrive in one piece at Embankment.

We walk up Villiers Street and across the Strand to the Opera House. Soon we’re ensconced in the plush red and gold heart of the theatre, as far from the dark reaches of the Thames as
it’s possible to be.

Greg’s managed to get us seats in the balcony. I survey the auditorium, take in the faint scent of expensive perfume, clap with everyone else as the orchestra take their place in the pit.
As the curtains sweep back I give in to the music, to the drama, since there is no longer anything I can do until after the final act.

The opera is in fact cathartic. Tosca suffers as I do from a jealous mind, a keen suspicion of anyone who might be about to take her lover’s attention from her. Yet she will do anything
for him, is willing to kill for him; she is a woman whose courage is to be revered. In spite of all this, the music and the story, part of my mind will not be stilled. I wait for the moment I may
leave and go back to Jez. Unleash his bound wrists, let him know that I’m here for him.

But today the fates are against me. For when the interval arrives, and I make my way down the stairs ahead of the others, I run straight into Helen.

Helen

Helen was relieved to leave work on Friday lunchtime knowing she was going straight to the opera. She wasn’t sure if the police were going to check whether she had gone
to work the previous Friday. But to cover herself she’d fabricated a story in her head about going to the Turkish baths. She was pretty certain no one could check up on this. The baths were
anonymous and the woman who sold the tickets barely looked up from her cubby hole when you paid. Helen would explain, if the police asked why she hadn’t told them straight away, that
she’d felt ashamed of trying to ward off an incipient cold by going to the baths, when she should have been at work.

Later, Helen would wonder why she’d gone to such elaborate lengths to cover up her true whereabouts, but at that moment the worst thing she could imagine was anyone, including the police,
discovering she was in a Smithfield’s pub, drinking off a hangover. It made her look like an alcoholic. They’d think she was cracking up and it would give Maria even more ammunition
with which to accuse her of being irresponsible.

Helen got the tube down to Covent Garden and headed for the Royal Opera House. She needed an escape after the gruelling week she’d had.

Oddly, Ben had slipped from the forefront of her thoughts to the back of her mind. Mick had stepped forward. All that grooming and hair smoothing. What was that about? She tried to see Mick
through Maria’s eyes. She had no idea any more whether he was attractive to other women. Perhaps this new feeling, this suspicion and jealousy of her own sister was guilt, she thought. A way
of punishing herself for her aberration with Ben. Whatever, it made her realize that she still loved Mick, couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

Helen bought herself a gin and tonic at the bar and knocked it back quickly. When the bell rang for the first act she went to find her seat. A numbness came over her as the alcohol took effect,
and she let the music and the performance wash over her.

Helen spotted Sonia before Sonia saw her. She tried to catch her eye, over the heads of the crowds moving away from their seats, but it was impossible. Sonia looked distracted, as she had done
that day in the market, and Helen wondered again about the depression Nadia had mentioned. Helen waved to try and catch her attention, but Sonia didn’t look up and Helen was ushered down the
staircase by people impatient for drinks.

In the bar Helen shoved her way between the bustling audience and saw Sonia at last, coming down another staircase.

‘Sonia! What a coincidence,’ she said. ‘Though then again of course not. You and Greg were bound to be here. Greg would never miss a rehearsal of
Tosca
! Simon gave me a ticket.
He was going to offer it to you but guessed Greg would probably have wheedled one off someone.’

Sonia nodded, but her eyes seemed glazed as they met Helen’s.

‘It’s lovely to see you,’ Helen said. ‘We haven’t caught up for ages. Don’t suppose you’ve time to talk? Afterwards, I mean. Are you alright? You look
pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ Sonia said.

Helen was taken aback. She was prepared to sympathize if Sonia felt low, but this response seemed decidedly chilly. She wondered whether Sonia had decided to cut off all contact since their kids
had grown up. It was hurtful if that was the case. Surely they could have a civil conversation for old times’ sake, if nothing else.

Then Sonia spoke. ‘I’ve had a touch of flu this week. Don’t feel one hundred per cent I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, yes. Simon told me. Said you’d had to cancel your sessions.’ Helen smiled, relieved to have an explanation, warming to Sonia now she understood.

‘You’ve seen Simon?’

‘He gave me the ticket. You’re not with it, are you, Sonia? You need a drink, honey. Listen, meet me afterwards and I’ll buy us champagne. I so need to talk. We’re in
this hellish situation. To do with my nephew. He’s vanished. And . . . Oh bugger, I shouldn’t start now. I’ll get all upset. We are
all
upset, it’s unbalanced everything.
Please, let’s meet afterwards for a drink. If you’re up to it? Oh, Greg. Hi.’

‘Helen,’ said Greg. ‘How are you? Sonia, excuse me, just to say, Kit and Harry have gone off to buy a programme. I’m just going to the loo and I’ll see you back at
the seats.’

‘I was asking Sonia if she’d meet me for a drink afterwards,’ Helen said. ‘If you can spare her? We haven’t seen each other on our own for . . . God, how long is
it, Sonia? Not for months! And I need to talk to her about—’

‘Fine by me!’ Greg said. ‘I’ll take Kit and Harry for something to eat. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with them both. You and Sonia can gossip the afternoon
away.’

When the last act had finished, Helen and Sonia found a table together in the bar. Greg came over, assured them again that they had all the time in the world to catch up. He
was going off with Kit and Harry to a restaurant in Covent Garden and he’d come back for Sonia when they were ready to go.

‘So,’ said Helen leaning towards her friend and pouring them both a large glass of Prosecco. She realized that what she’d been missing, what she really needed was the chance to
offload her stress onto an impartial friend.

‘I don’t suppose you remember my nephew, Jez?’

Sonia

The Opera House bar is heaving with people all desperate for something to drink.

‘My nephew, Jez,’ Helen’s saying, ‘my sister’s son, he was staying with us, while he looked at music colleges.’

I look around for a clock. Can’t see one. Guess it must be around five. Jez has been alone in the garage, tied up, since last night. Anxiety churns through me. Something will stand in the
way of my getting back to him. My desire to hear what Helen has to say is bound to delay me further. Because in spite of myself I’m compelled to hear what’s going on in Jez’s
family, how they feel about his time away. What they think has happened. It may give me vital clues as to when and how I can return him. Helen has started to talk, I’m aware of her mouth
moving, but I cannot hear the words. They’re drowned by the anxious thoughts tumbling in and piling up in my mind; the Clipper will be cancelled due to stormy weather, there’ll be a
power cut and the tubes will stop. I won’t get back tonight and Jez will be tied to the bed in his duct-tape bonds, unable to eat or drink. He’ll die a slow, agonizing death.
He’ll think this was what I wanted for him when the reality is, I want the opposite.

That’s when it happens. I see blue lights, hear sirens and adult voices expressing dismay, and I’m back there.

After the police launches and the ambulances and the blue lights and the noise, I found myself on a hard Formica bench in a chilly corridor. Nothing would warm me. Not the Bovril they gave me in
a polystyrene cup, nor the rough grey blanket they put round my shoulders.

The bench was surrounded with people looking down at me, asking me questions.

‘I was holding on,’ I cried, my teeth gnashing together as I shivered. ‘I didn’t let go.’

Then a nurse materialized through the sea of faces, her skin pale, golden hair curling from under her little white cap, but it was her eyebrows I noticed, finely plucked and highly arched. They
made her look as if she’d had a terrible shock. I remember it vividly, the look of fright upon her face, the way her mouth contorted slightly as she formed the words, ‘I’m
sorry.’

I waited for an arm around me, reassurance, ‘They’ve made a mistake.’

Instead, the faces altered, crumpled, broke, and one pair of eyes looked at me full of something I’d never seen before but have seen many times since: pure hatred.

I was never sure if the terrible wail as they moved me away down the white corridor came from my own throat or someone else’s.

‘Sonia,’ Helen’s saying. ‘Are you OK? You aren’t ill again, are you? Do you need anything? Some more water?’

The people in the Amphitheatre restaurant are swimming. The whole room feels suddenly as if it’s on the river, swaying up and down like the Clipper. I clutch the arms of my chair.

‘It’s OK,’ I say at last. ‘But perhaps I’ll have that glass of wine.’

I tell myself I’ll give her half an hour. Then I’ll make an excuse and go.